Conversation was general as the dinner commenced, but gradually became more specific as partners turned to each other and applied themselves to being entertaining. Madeline should have felt relieved when Gervase divided his time equally between her and Lady Moreston on his other side; instead, she viewed his amiability with suspicion.
The tiger’s stripes were there, concealed beneath his elegantly cut black coat, disguised by the precisely tied cravat and ivory linen perhaps, but he hadn’t lost them.
Yet every time he turned to her, he seemed perfectly content to toe the line she’d drawn, and interact with her purely on their previous social plane.
Perhaps he’d realized the unwisdom of his enterprise—his tilt at changing her mind about indulging in dalliance with him?
The thought gave her pause. When next she turned from Mr. Hennessy, Gervase was turning from Lady Moreston.
“I meant to thank you,” she said, voice low. “For taking the boys sailing yesterday.”
His lips curved; she saw the smile echoed in his eyes. “I can honestly say it was my pleasure. I haven’t had a boat out in years, and the truth is I can no longer so easily call on my grooms to join me. Having your brothers to crew was the perfect answer.”
She smiled. “They thought the day beyond perfect, too. Of course, now they’re pestering me for a boat of their own.”
“No need. Once Harry and Edmond are a trifle older and stronger, they can borrow one of the castle boats. One of the smaller ones, so they won’t be tempted to go out too far.” He met her gaze and shrugged. “Otherwise the boats are just sitting in the boathouse. The girls will never sail.”
She raised her brows, hesitated, then inclined her head. “The promise of that will hold them for now.”
He sat back, lifted his wine glass, and sipped.
She glanced at him—and found herself trapped in his eyes.
For one long heartbeat, she stared into those tigerish orbs, then she hauled in a breath, wrenched her gaze away and looked across the table. “I—”
“We have to talk.” Beneath the table he closed his hand over hers where it lay in her lap, lifted it when she jumped, long fingers tensing, gripping when she would have twisted free.
Lungs tightening, she again met his eyes. “We are talking.” She clung to her mask, her social persona.
His lips curved, the light in his eyes one she’d never expected to encounter, certainly not about a crowded dinner table. Out of sight, his fingers stroked hers, a soothing touch that didn’t soothe her at all.
“Not about what I need to discuss with you.”
She arched a brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
His smile widened. “I seriously doubt you want me to answer—not here, not now. Not in public.” He let a moment pass, then added, “Of course, if you insist…far be it from me to disoblige a lady.”
She jettisoned all notion of pretending disbelief; the threat in his words was proof enough of his fell intent.
Rescue came from an unexpected source. Lady Porthleven rose to her feet. “Come, ladies—let’s leave the gentlemen to their musings.”
Chairs scraped. Madeline seized the moment to lean nearer and murmur, “We don’t have anything to discuss, my lord—nothing that can’t be aired in a public forum.” She twisted her fingers and he let them go. She met his amber eyes. “There is nothing of a private nature between us.”
She turned from him and rose.
He rose, too, drawing back her chair.
Facing the door, her back to him, she stepped out from the table.
Into the hard palm he’d raised, ostensibly to steady her.
In reality to shake her.
He succeeded, his touch searing through layers of fine silk to set fires flickering on her skin.
She froze, her breath tangled in her throat.
He leaned close, his murmured words falling by her ear. “I believe you’ll discover you’re mistaken.”